


The Night We Met

by hellcatstrut



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geraskier, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, M/M, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, geraltxjaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:34:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23472553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellcatstrut/pseuds/hellcatstrut
Summary: After the events in King Niedamir's mountains, Jaskier and Geralt of Rivia have parted ways. While the Witcher is off on his next adventure, Jaskier is left hurt and confused, struggling to find what he should do with himself. Here, he encounters unexpected company and learns a little about himself.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 51





	1. Distance

Three days he’d spent on the road--or was it four now? Perhaps five, even. He’d stopped really keeping count. Although that wasn’t entirely accurate, it was more correct to say that he had been too deep in thought to keep count. For the first time in what felt like his whole life, Jaskier Alfred Pankratz was at a loss for words. He’d spare a few for passersby if they were to interact with him, and indulged those willing to slip him a coin for a song, but his clients were left even less satisfied than usual, as his voice lacked his usual enthusiasm. 

His feet ached, as he’d no horse, his clothes felt dusty, as he’d not enough money for a room in an inn, and he scarcely trusted leaving the main roads in search of a river or stream to bathe in. This was far from the first time he’d felt uncomfortable, but he couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt uncomfortable in his own skin. It felt like every person he passed could be a potential enemy, a threat just waiting to reveal itself--and he had no one to help him. Friends yes, he had a few, but none so close as Geralt of Rivia. 

Even to think his name drew a pang of regret to his heart. It was not in his nature to shed tears over the loss of a friendship, but was it not more impactful to have one’s thoughts entirely consumed by such a loss days after? He hardly slept, and even if he’d had a feast available to him, he likely wouldn’t partake. All he really could do was keep moving, despite the holes worn in his thin shoes and the blisters forming on his delicate feet. 

Without a torch to guide his way, Jaskier was forced to take shelter among the trees. He had a thin wool blanket and change of clothes from his travels with the Witcher and his lute--both gifts from the man who’d never once called him friend.

That thought stopped the bard in his tracks. Had Geralt ever called him a friend? Not to his recollection...many unkind names, even a eunuch once. They were never going to be the kind of friends to laugh over a pint and swap manly stories around the fire, but...it would have been nice to at least hear it. To think that Geralt saw him as more than a chore--something that needed tending to. Had Jaskier not tried hard enough? He’d done the best he could to repair the Witcher’s reputation, regaled countless people with stories of his bravery and cunning and tales of the adventures in which they had partaken. What had he done wrong?

He trudged through the woods at the very edge of the road, looking for a good place to rest where he wouldn’t be robbed for what little he had. But he paused again at the sight of light dancing in the leaves and grass on the ground not too far away. He followed the light to its source--a small fire, attended by a lone man. He looked old and weary, dressed in simple peasant clothes, and without so much as a hat to warm his balding head. There was a rabbit roasting over the fire. 

“Don’ stand there all night now,” said the old man in an old voice. “Come sit ‘ere wit’ me by the fire. S’gonna be a cold one.” 

Jaskier had hoped to go unnoticed so he could slip away and find a more private place to sleep, but he supposed this old man posed little threat. It might be a nice change of pace to have some company…

“My apologies,” he said as he stepped between the trees that separated them to stand on the opposite side of the fire. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” 

“Didn’ say you’s disturbed me, did I?” asked the man as he set a few more twigs into the fire. 

“No,” Jaskier answered, averting his gaze. “I suppose you didn’t.” 

“S’pose all you’s like,” said the old man. “I know what I said. Sit. Have some rabbit.” 

Jaskier removed his pack and his lute and set them aside as he sat down, crossing his sore legs in front of him. “You are very generous, sir, to offer your rabbit to me, but I’m afraid I’m not hungry.” 

“Not gen’rous,” the old man said gruffly. “I’ll be dead soon, and I don’t want a bard’s starvin’ soul on my conscious when I go to meet my god.”

Jaskier stared for a moment at the old man, surprised by the roundabout wisdom his words held. “I um...all the same, please, eat. I’m young and fit enough so live yet another night.” 

Silence stretched between them as the old man tended his fire for a few moments longer. He prodded the meat with a small, dull butter knife he produced from a skinny pouch on his belt and he cut away a haunch, which he then held out to Jaskier. 

“Sir I--” 

“I heard you’s the first time,” the man said, pale eyes staring at the fire instead of at his guest. “An’ I don’t r’member askin’ if you’s was hungry. Eat. Or I’m a bad host.” 

Silence again, with only the crackle of the fire between them and the smell of rabbit wafting toward the bard. He took the rabbit leg with a soft, resigned sigh and held it over his lap. He glanced up to see the old man cutting away the other leg to take a bite. At least he was eating too…

The rabbit wasn’t terrible. A little tough and without salt or citrus as he liked, but they weren’t exactly attending a Centran feast, now were they? They ate together in silence, the old man gave him one of the front legs and then picked the rest of the meat from the carcass for himself with his teeth. 

“What’s a bard doin’ so far from civ’lized folk?” the old man asked once their meal was through. 

“What most folks my age are probably doing,” Jaskier said quietly, tossing the rabbit bones into the fire. He watched them slowly blacken and crack in the heat, marrow seeping out and sizzling before it too turned black. “Trying to find what I’m meant to be doing.” 

The old man let out a grunt, a wide grin on his face. 

“Something funny?” Jaskier asked, not unkindly. 

“You youngins. Worried ‘bout what you’s ‘posed t’be doin, forgettin’ to look what’s right in front of you’s noses.” The old man shook his head and turned his face away, letting out a cough that rattled deep in his chest--maybe he wasn’t so wrong about dying soon. “You’s get as old as I am, all you’s can do is put one foot front o’ the other. Do the next right thing.” 

Jaskier looked down at his hands and then at one of the frayed holes in the side of his right shoe. He’d been doing that, hadn’t he?

“What do you play?” 

Jaskier glanced at his lute and then back to the man questioningly. “A lute,” he said. “Like most bards.” 

“Most bards are shite,” the man said as he backed away from the fire to lean against the tree behind him. He let out another cough that left him breathless, then cleared his throat and rested his head against the trunk. “Are you’s shite, boy?” 

The old man's words were harsh, but true, and Jaskier was reminded of the time by the lake, when Geralt had finally critiqued his singing. Then he’d been offended, now he felt bittersweet amusement. Of all the things the Witcher could have said to him, that was what stung the least. 

“I used to think I was good,” he said honestly. “Now not so much. I don’t play very much anymore.” 

“A bard tha’ doesn’t play,” the old man rasped, “is a man don’t know how to put his next foot forward. Play for me.” 

Jaskier chewed his lip for a moment and reached out to pick up his lute, trying to think of what he should play, if anything at all. “Most bards would ask for coin in exchange for a song,” he pointed out as he began to pluck strings, tuning the instrument as he went. 

“Suck the marrow from my bones when I’m gone,” the old man croaked. “You’s welcome to it.” 

Silence returned to them for a moment, Jaskier’s fingers resting lightly on the strings, hand poised to begin plucking again, but no songs came to mind. So he asked, “Any requests?” 

“Don’t know no names,” the old man murmured, his voice quieter now, breathier. “Play what you’s play for the people that give you’s coin.” 

Jaskier hesitated, because the song he’d played most often of late was the one he’d written for and to Geralt...why not? 

He closed his eyes and drew a breath in slowly before he played the opening chord. “When a humble bard, graced a ridealong, with Geralt of Rivia, along came this...song…” He sang quietly and without the bravado he used in the pubs and taverns, gently, and until the song ended. Only then did he raise his eyes from the embers of the fire, looking across to the old man. His eyes were closed, his breast still, and though it pained Jaskier to realize that he didn’t have a shovel, he felt grateful to have shared the stranger’s last moments.


	2. Fairweather Friend

Time passed, and Jaskier had found his path again, walking it with his usual jaunt and swagger. He played for princes as often as paupers, but every now and then, when he found himself without a room for the night and with more time on his hands than company at his side, he would sit with his back against a tree, a small fire by which to warm his feet, and he would play for an old man he’d not seen in half a year. 

With the days shortening and the biting, morning chill lasting longer, Jaskier felt less inclined to travel for his coin. He would find a tavern or an inn and use the few crowns he could earn with his lute to pay for his room and board. Though on nights when the patrons felt less generous, he would have to find other accommodations. This evening, he found himself several crowns shy of enough, and it seemed tonight would be spent under the stars. 

The last guest left to their room and Jaskier’s finger paused over the strings of his lute, the last chord he’d played lingering on the air as he waited for the inevitable. 

“Time to clear out,” said the inkeep, a robust woman with a pock-marked face and an unshakable constitution. 

“I don’t suppose you’d accept payment in charm and musical talent?” Jaskier asked with a cheeky smile, plucky a few joyful chords as if to pique her interest. 

“Unless your singin’ can put food in my nan’s mouth, no,” said the innkeep in an alarmingly motherly way. Might she have a rolling pin tucked away somewhere, waiting to beat errant bards around the ears for lingering when they oughtn’t? Best not to try his luck...then again, since when had Jaskier learned common sense of all things?

“Far be it for me to deprive your fair nan of sweetmeats and treats,” Jaskier rhymed, adjusting one of the pegs of his lute, though it was already perfectly in tune. He studied the tavern owner for a moment, wondering how he might earn her favor in order to stay the night. It was awfully chilly out there…

He didn't have long to ponder though, as the door to the tavern opened again and a rather plain-looking woman with average brown hair, average brown eyes and an overall fairly bland choice in dress and shawl stepped into the light of the hearth. Oh no he knew her, didn't he--?

“Gwenevere!” he exclaimed, smiling broadly as he stood up, strapping his lute hurriedly over his back and nudging it quickly into place. His smile withered around the edges when her expression remained stoney, plain eyes sweeping him from head to toe with disdain in their murky depths. Oh dear, she didn’t look very happy to see him at all, what had he--

“My name is Grevelda!” the woman snapped. “It wasn’t even me you’d stuck your prick in and you can’t remember.”

Jaskier’s stomach sank into the ground and he reached up a hand to scratch at the back of his head anxiously, laughing again to try to dispel some of the nervous energy that suddenly lit his limbs like torches. He cast a panicked glance at the tavern owner, but she only smirked and shook her head as she continued to wipe the counter with a rag. 

“Ah, I’m so sorry," Jaskier said, looking back to the woman, "had I spent that evening with your...sister?” 

“My brother,” she said dully, placing a hand on her hip as she leaned closer to him. “Have you got ale where your brain should be? Some nerve you’ve got showin’ yourself ‘round these parts again.”

Brother...brother, her brother? Jaskier couldn’t for the life of him recall a face or even a name--not that he’d gotten hers right either. But that seemed beside the point, perhaps he’d be better off not trying his luck with her either. Bruised pride was nothing compared to a flayed ego, and that’s all he suspected he’d gain from her. 

“As witty as you are beautiful, I’d expect nothing less,” he said pleasantly enough. He snapped his fingers, brows raising in realization as he said, “You’ve just reminded me, I’m late for a meeting with a hag in a bog, and I haven’t a moment longer to spare--forgive me!”

He beat a hasty retreat with the sound of indignant swearing ringing in his ears, reaching back over his shoulder to keep his lute from smacking him in the ass with every quick step. Thankfully, the woman didn’t give chase, and he slowed down a moment later, breath clouding in front of him in the cold night air. He found himself in the town square, drawn to the notice board outside of the horse trader's house. 

In the light of the lantern hung above the board, Jaskier read the notices, fingers brushing over some parchments which were so old the ink had mostly faded away and the paper had begun to crumble. Mostly the usual, notices about Nilfgaardian changes in regime, new rules and old being adjusted. Someone was particularly upset about suspicions of their pigs being violated during the night, and offered a hefty reward. Nothing of interest...yet still he looked. Whenever he passed a notice board, he hazarded at least a glance, looking for contracts that might attract certain do-gooders. He didn’t know what he’d do if he found one, if he was honest.

Jaskier turned away from the notice board as a figure approached from behind. The cloak that shrouded the figure in shadow obscured all features except one--a strand of silvery hair. His pulse quickened as he stood to attention, anxiety bringing sweat to his palms, his skin tingling in short waves like an angry swarm of bees crawling under the sleeves of his doublet. Feverish chills coursed through him as the figure stood there motionless, as if unsure which of them should speak first. Jaskier's vision blurred around the edges blurred with tears--or was that hope? Possibly both.

“Excuse me lad." The man spoke slowly and in an even tone, not in the dark, gruff voice Jaskier had expected and yearned to hear. “I had noticed the lute on your person, and hoped you’d entertain my family for tonight. We can offer you a bed in return should you have the need. Can't promise it will be particularly comfortable, but we've warm blankets and a fire.”

Jaskier's hackles dropped and took his shoulders with them. It wasn’t uncommon for old folks to be kind and generous, was it? Not that he had very many interactions with them...mostly just one. Where was the danger in going with a frail older gentleman? He could just imagine his more skeptical friends looking at this man from every angle, questioning his motives, any strange shapes that might linger under his cloak suggesting weapons. But Jaskier was tired...he wanted to rest, and this man offered him the opportunity to do just that. 

"That is a most generous offer sir," he said, tone light and grateful despite his disappointment. "Please, lead on."

They walked along together through the small town, keeping mainly to well-trodden roads. The moon was bright enough to light their path without the aid of either torch or lantern thankfully, though Jaskier did hope they wouldn't have far to walk--after a few weeks of sitting and lounging and lying down, his feet felt more tender than they had in recent seasons.

"Who shall I be entertaining?" he asked as they turned a corner, looking around for flickering candle lights in one of the windows that might suggest someone was waiting for them. "Is your family celebrating something?"

"Not necessarily, but we have been travelling for a good long while, and I believe your talents could lift everyone's spirits a little," said the old man, walking with the same patient gait. He didn't seem to be in much of a hurry. "We have good food and wine. You're welcome to join us, I'm sure a bard has more than a few stories to share."

"Hmm," he chuckled thoughtfully, "you're quite right, though far be it for me to take all the attention when you and your family enjoy an evening of mirth and merry. But I will I'll gladly play a few jigs for you." 

Before too long, a small house came into view. Perhaps more of a cabin than a house, really. It looked solidly made, but part of the roof seemed to be sunken in, as if it were on the verge of collapsing. If there were candles lit, Jaskier could scarcely see their flickering lights past the caked on layers of dry, dead ivy and bryonia that caked the house. As they neared it, his eyes lingered on an intricate symbol carved into the wood beside the front door. It seemed fresh, as if it had been cut just that night. Jaskier was no expert, but he recognized the symbol for what it was--magic.

"Is your family waiting inside?" he asked, loitering a few paces away from the house with his hand on the strap across his chest that kept his lute in place. For the first time, he had serious doubts about the wisdom in following a strange old man across the village to a seemingly abandoned hut.

The old man turned back toward him, staring at him for a moment presumably, but his face was still shrouded in shadow by the cloak's hood. "You're wise to be wary, young bard. But please, if I wished you harm, would it not have been easier for me to strike you earlier? When your guard was down?"

"Comforting, thank you," Jaskier said, smiling emotionlessly. "Very reassuring."

Chuckling, the old man stepped up to the door and knocked thrice. When he opened it, light and voices and laughter spilled out, as if the door itself had sealed it all inside. The light from inside lit the stranger's face finally as he stepped past the threshold. His skin was wrinkled and leathery, as if he worked in the sun often, though there were more smile lines than anything. He had kind grey eyes, and as Jaskier looked closer, he realized the hair that was tied back into a tail was not silver, but dull grey. That was almost a comfort.

"I've found us a bard," he announced, to a collective cheer from everyone else in the building. 

Jaskier took a breath, shelved his concerns, and stepped forward into the house. Immediately, he looked around in confusion and awe. There was so much more space than the outside of the building suggested. A long table with two seats on each side and one at each end, absolutely covered with every sweet and treat Jaskier could have imagined. He was particularly interested in a platter of sweet rolls whose glaze glistened in the light from the fire crackling in the hearth to one side of the room.

"What is your name, bard?" asked a new voice.

Jaskier blinked and looked up from the feast to the occupants of the table. There were four of them, two sitting in each of the chairs on the sides. They all wore travelling cloaks, but two of the cloaks were of much finer quality than the others. The clothes Jaskier could see under the cloaks seemed well-made, if not luxurious, and he could see no specific crests to suggest where these people hailed from. They all appeared human, but from his travels, Jaskier had learned not to entirely trust appearances.

"Dandelion," he said, looking around at the faces of the others. "That's what my audiences call me."

"What an interesting name," said an older woman with fair skin, grey hair and pretty blue eyes. Her cloak was brown and dull, and she wore it tucked well around her thin frame as if to keep her warm, though she sat closest to the fire. "Did your mother choose it?"

"I chose it myself," Jaskier said as he watched the old man who had led him here walk to sit at the head of the table. "I've found in my time that a certain degree of anonymity grants more freedoms than problems." 

"Ever think you'd live to see the day a bard doesn't choose to tout his name to the masses for fame and fortune, mother?" sneered another of the cloaked figures. This one sat across from the first, a skeletally thin boy with sunken brown eyes and a hooked, beak-like nose. He couldn't have been older than twelve, yet his hair looked brittle and thin, as if it had begun to fall out, and his cloak looked the worst of them all--stained on the hem and burnt along the left edge. 

"Tyler, be kind to our guest," said the old man. "So long as he can play, I'll call him Mother if he asks it." 

"Have a seat," said the matronly-looking woman, pushing the platter of sweet buns Jaskier had not-so-subtly eyeballed toward him. "You look hungry. Have something to eat, then you can play for us."

Jaskier glanced at the old man, who nodded encouragingly to him. Only then did he remove his lute from his back and sit down, leaning the instrument against the side of the chair. He took the plate Hannah handed to him and served himself a sweet bun and a small piece of toffee. He'd already eaten supper, but who could say no to a sweet when it was offered?

"You're all very generous," Jaskier said. "Please, tell me your names at the least, so I know who to thank."

The old man reached out for a glazed ham hock, carving it with a serving knife as he said, "I am Ulrik, Hannah is my lovely wife. Tyler is our son, forgive his manners, I know for a fact his mother treated him better than that."

Tyler snorted and crossed his arms over his slender chest. The fingers of his right hand were blackened at the tips, the nails split and red underneath, like overcooked sausages whose casings had burst in the heat of the fire. Jaskier didn't realize he'd been staring until Tyler lowered his hands back to his lap, a scowl on his face as he glared across the table at the person beside his mother. 

"I'm Josh," said a younger man from beside Tyler. He looked nearly identical to Ulrik, but without the effects of time on his youthful skin and light brown hair. "Tyler is my older brother. We're both sorcerers!"

"In training," said the last of the group. They had umber skin, a dark, yellowish brown that was bathed nearly golden in the light of the fire behind their seat. They had startlingly blue eyes, pale and watchful, in a face that was somehow beautiful and handsome at the same time. Their hair was shorn short on the left side of their head, braided on the right with tiny metal beads and ringlets woven throughout. It was all tied back behind their head, kept out of the way. 

"We wouldn't still be in training if you hadn't made us leave home," Tyler said, his glare shifting to his father. "Jessie can't teach us properly if we're constantly travelling."

"I can and I have been," Jessie said, leaning back in their chair and crossing their arms defensively over their chest. "Perhaps you struggle to pay attention when you're more concerned with flirting with the local girls." 

"Shut up!" Tyler snapped, his voice cracking in youthful defiance. "It's your fault I got hurt, stop blaming me for it!"

The resulting silence fell heavily on the room, the only sound the crackling of the fire and Ulrik's knife slicing through the ham hock. Jaskier had taken a bite of his toffee, but now was afraid to chew it. He bit the arrowhead and swallowed the bite whole, silently cursing himself as it scraped the inside of his throat all the way down. 

"Let's not burden our guest with family matters," said Hannah sensibly. "Dandelion, please. Sing us something. A story, perhaps, I'm sure you've plenty."

That was the best idea he'd heard all night, and Jaskier was quick to pick up his lute and scoot his chair back a bit from the table. He cleared his throat lightly and plucked a chord to ensure it was still in tune. 

"Something appropriate for the children," Jessie said, eyeing him like he was a rotfiend about to burst.

"Of course, my lady," Jaskier said with a nod, playing the beginning chords of a plucky song about a maiden in an apple orchard. 

"Not my lady. Neither a sir," the mage corrected him. "You may call me my friend when you've earned the right. Until then, just Jessie." 

Jaskier nodded, extending the introduction to the song a bit to allow him to say, "As you wish," before delving into the song.

Given what Jaskier knew about the family thus far, everyone reacted to his song about as he could have predicted. Tyler glared at the table the whole time, Josh laughed and sung along to the chorus once he knew it, Hannah and Ulrik watched their son and enjoyed his reactions as much as the song itself, and Jessie seemed indifferent to it all. Even as he performed, Jaskier had to wonder about these people...they seemed very out of place in this little village. Where had they come from? 

He ended the song with a flourish and smiled, giving a little partial bow from his seat as everyone except Tyler clapped--probably best considering the condition of the poor boy's hand. Jaskier felt on top of the world with their praise, better than he had in a good long while. So he asked, "Any requests? If I don't know a song, I'm sure I know something very similar." 

"Oh, oh! There's a song I heard in a tavern many seasons ago, it had a very catchy tune. It was about a witcher," Hannah said, studying Jaskier closely. Suddenly, he wasn't terribly excited to be in that hut anymore. He could lie...say he didn't know it. He didn't like lying, mainly because he couldn't do it convincingly. All his friends told him he had been a dreadful liar all his life, so why bother? This time, it was his uncertainty that made the decision for him, as he had been quiet too long. 

"Oh aye, I think we've found the right bard," said Ulrik. "The one that wrote that song, my love. The one who used to follow the witcher around like a lost pup."

Jaskier's mouth ran dry and he moved his lute from across his lap, setting it between his knees now. He felt cornered at the end of the table, and he would have liked to beat a hasty retreat--what did these people want from him?

"Anonymity does precious little when you've spent years of your life hocking yourself as the greatest bard to ever live," said Jessie, watching him closely. "Spreading the good word of the Butcher of Blaviken, the White Wolf who would sooner cut a child's head from his shoulders than let a creature he had deemed to be a monster run free." 

It took everything in him not to bolt then and there. Not because they were talking about Geralt, but because they didn't seem very fond of him. And people who weren't very fond of a witcher likely wouldn't take very kindly to someone who had been friends with one for years. But he remained there, his legs as limp as the custard filling in the pie on the table, yet at the same time buzzing with energy that left him feeling light-headed.

"If I've done something to offend, I sincerely apologize," Jaskier said, his voice lower and quieter now thanks to the tightness in his throat. "It has been a very long time since I've seen Geralt… if you've a quarrel to settle with him, I promise I cannot help you resolve it."

"Look at him, he's scared," Josh said, not unkindly. "Can't we just--"

"Silence," hissed Jessie, their blue eyes snapping to the child and making him cower with only that look. 

"We don't mean to frighten you, but we need your help," Hannah said, leaning forward until her cloak slipped off her shoulder. A pendant hung from a golden chain around her neck, a golden moon against a black background, shining over a stretch of water in the foreground. Jaskier didn't recognize it, nor did he know to which house it belonged--noble, but not renowned. 

"More specifically, the children in our care need your help," Ulrik added, looking to Tyler. 

Jaskier looked to the injured young man, and this time when Tyler looked at him, his dark eyes sent a shuddering chill down the bard's spine. It was like meeting the eyes of a predator in the face of a child.

Tyler's eyes were far from what disturbed Jasker most, as the older boy lifted his injured hand. "Your son-of-a-whore witcher did this to me when I got in his way," he said. "He tried to burn my little sister, and I stopped him."

"It was really scary," Josh said quietly, looking at Jaskier from around his brother's arm. "I never saw a man with eyes like that before...not even Lady Deirdre's."

"I am the captain of the Blackwater family guard," Ulrik said. "You're not likely to have heard of them. They've been forced to leave countless lands and territories for hundreds of years, each generation suffering more injustice than the last."

"We've taken Aldor from his family home in the hopes of keeping him safe," Hannah added. Her words were directed at Jaskier, but her eyes focused on the arm of the boy who'd been called Tyler. So this was Aldor...and he was clearly not related to these people. He looked nothing like them. But Josh had called him brother--

"Oh, I see," Jaskier said quietly, taking a shaky breath. "You're in hiding, so you've given a false name--sensible." And familiar. He cleared his throat gently and shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't see where I come into this…" Nor whether he should want to involve himself--if these people were on the run from Geralt, surely there must be a good reason. 

"We've come to this dark, depressing land in search of you," Jessie said. "The witcher is strong, cunning, and unwavering in his hunt. Much like the predator whose noble name he spits on. He's unhinged. Won't listen to reason, and is not beyond killing children."

Jaskier blinked, alarmed but unsure if he could safely express that. This had quickly turned from a fun gathering into an uncomfortable situation, and now it felt more like an interrogation. He adjusted his grip on the neck of his lute and said, "I'm sure that...whatever Geralt has done, he f-felt he had a reason--"

Aldor's uninjured hand slammed down on the table as he stood, chair hitting the backs of his knees and skittering backward to crash to the ground. "You think reason makes it acceptable to murder children?"

As quickly as it had come, Aldor's rage dissolved. Josh stood quickly to right the chair before Yearden fell back into it, clutching at his arm, expression twisted in pain. The boy's dark eyes bore into Jaskier, as if daring him to say anything contradictory. 

"We need someone to talk sense into the witcher," Ulrik said. "We would kill him outright, but a man doesn't earn the title Butcher if he's easy to kill."

"And you think somehow I'm going to be able to do that for you?" Jaskier asked incredulously. 

"We know you have history with him," Hannah said. "The ballads you've written about him and the raven-haired sorceress, a mere fairweather friend doesn't admire a man enough to write and perform songs about him."

Jaskier leaned forward slightly in his seat, voice a little lower and more urgent, "Geralt is--was one of my dearest friends. But I promise I cannot help you. The last time I spoke to him, he told me under no uncertain terms that he never wanted to see me again. Seeing me would probably only make him more angry , and an angry witcher is not what you want…" His voice broke and cut off as Jessie leaned in closer to him. They smelled of spices and herbs...cloves and something much less pleasant--potion ingredients. 

"For a bard, you do more talking than singing, and it's getting on my nerves," the mage said. "You'll help us. If he kills you, that's no great loss. There are other bards, and I can make them look however I want. I wanted to save myself the trouble if we could find the real deal first." They moved their left hand in an intricate motion and there was a flash of light that left Jaskier's eyes aching. He blinked slowly, mind adrift in haze and fog as he relaxed back into his seat. What had he been so upset about? 

"What did you do to him?" Ulrik asked, though he sounded curious rather than worried. 

"Witchers aren't the only ones who can control minds, they're just rude about it," Jessie replied. They sat back down in their seat and snapped their fingers. Jaskier turned his head to look at the mage as they said, "You are going to follow us home. You will distract the witcher Geralt of Rivia. If you should fail, you will protect Yearden Blackwater and his siblings, Maritula and Valka with your life. Understood?"

"This isn't how I wanted to do this," Hannah murmured, rubbing the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger. 

"Then it's a good thing you are not," Aldor sneered. "The mage serves me, and so do you. You'll do as you're told and you'll shut up about it." 

"Jaskier, tell me you'll do this," Jessie prompted. "I need to hear the words."

With the bickering going on around him, Jaskier had thought it better to stay quiet for the time. He'd even been momentarily distracted by the pastry in front of him, only to have his attention returned to the mage sitting across from him. "Hmm? Oh yes, of course. Anything I can do to help," he said. There was a loud clatter beneath the table, and Jaskier looked down to see his lute lying on the floor where it had fallen, neck broken in two, strings splayed out grotesquely. He felt it should have upset him greatly, but all he could do was chuckle, shake his head, and say, "Clumsy me." 

"We leave in the morning," Ulrik said. "Eat your dinner quickly and then sleep. We've a long journey back to Novigrad."


	3. Tired

The flicker of candle light from every flat surface in the room had grown tiresome quickly. How long had he been here, exactly? Must have been a long time now considering how often he’d had to replenish the oil in the lantern on the vanity. It was more tedious, but preferable still to the dancing shadows cast by candles. 

Tedious was a good word to describe his life over the last...gods knew how long. He’d returned to Novigrad in the hopes of finding some peace and quiet--those on the street would ridicule and scorn him, but these snide remarks were no stranger to Geralt of Rivia. That he could remember, the only place he’d visited where the common folk were at best kind to him and at worst, indifferent, was Toussaint. And just then, listening to the flowery nonsense of every perfumed, well-intentioned Knight Errant asking if he needed help wiping his own ass sounded as appealing as shoving splinters under his fingernails. 

So Novigrad it was--somewhere he could blend in, maybe find some comfort when he wanted it. Though lately, comfort seemed harder and harder to come by. 

“You stink,” said the woman lying on his bed. She was pretty, with blond hair--brunette? Some kind of lighter color, not black. That was all he could remember about her, and he’d only come in and sat down in the wooden chair beside the tub a few moments ago. She was nothing special--just the first one he’d laid eyes on that didn’t immediately shrink away from him in disgust. 

“Happens when rotfiends gang up on a man with his back turned,” Geralt said dully, leaning down to unbuckle his boots and grimacing as his left shoulder protested the movement. He pulled his boots off one after the other and curled his toes, feeling the bones pop and the muscles stretch and cramp up. He squeezed his eyes shut as he forced his feet to sit flat against the floor again, rolling his ankles. He could feel the cold wooden floor against bare skin--holes in his socks again. Wonderful. These boots were ill-fitting, and he hadn’t the coin to purchase new ones, nor could he afford to keep buying new socks. But he would have to figure out something, as a witcher could develop blisters and infection the same as a human without appropriately sized equipment, then he would have many more costly problems...but he could worry over it another time. 

“I don’t want to touch you until you’ve bathed,” the prostitute said. 

Geralt didn’t look up from his feet, just shook his head and pulled the torn socks away and tossed them over onto his boots. “Then don’t,” he said. “You’re welcome to leave.” 

Though he couldn’t see her past the privacy screen to his right, Geralt could just imagine the look of surprise on her face. The bed creaked faintly as she sat up, but she didn’t leave yet, undoubtedly distrustful of a man who offered her a night off after already being paid. “But your coin,” she said, confirming his suspicion. 

“Keep it,” Geralt sighed, grimacing as he reached up to unbuckle and shuck off pieces of armor. They were studded leather, yet felt heavy as plate mail in that moment. He had hoped he would feel more relief in his shoulder once he’d taken it off, but still it pained him. Fine, if it was going to continue to be a problem, he’d treat it like all of the other problems in his life--he’d studiously ignore it until he couldn’t any longer. 

With his armor removed, he looked down at the ruin of his shirt. The cloth looked intact, but it was plastered to his skin with rotfiend guts and blood in various stages of drying. Black, various shades of shit brown and yellowish green that reminded him of pus-filled wounds. He pulled at the hem and grimaced again as it peeled away from his skin. At least he wouldn’t have to exfoliate ever again in his life. 

“You’ve rented this room for so long, and you’re not even using it to fuck anyone,” the woman said, clearly displeased. He could hear her moving around the room, hopefully dressing so she would leave sooner rather than later. Geralt had never been terribly impatient with the men and women he bedded, but lately he found himself asking them to be quiet more often than not. Some of them had picked up on his dislike of conversation, others not so much. 

“You can’t keep doing this,” said the woman. 

“Can’t I?” Geralt snorted derisively as he grabbed the hem of the shirt he’d been trying to carefully pull up and yanked it hard away from his body. It stung, but was hardly the worst pain he’d ever felt. Using mostly his right arm, he pulled the shirt up over his head, ripping it away from his back too where his sweat had helped the blood and worse wick up into the fabric. “I didn’t realize Marquise Serenity had her accountants spreading their legs for coin. Business must be lacking.” 

He heard a disgusted sound and then quick, angry steps toward the door, which slammed shut and left his ears ringing. Finally, a moment to himself. 

As he tossed the crusty shirt to lay atop his soiled socks, Geralt looked down at his hands. They were calloused from years, decades of swinging swords at beasts and worse--the callouses were a symbol of his hard work and dedication. But what caught his attention was the grime caked under his nails and in the beds of his cuticles-- _ cuticles _ ? Where had he gotten that word? Where had he learned it? Ah, yes. Jaskier, of course. It certainly wasn’t a word Geralt had any reason to learn, yet there were a great many things he had no business knowing. And thanks to the dubiously affluent and flamboyant bard, he’d never get them out of his head again. Gods, he was even starting to think like the man. 

The witcher stood with a grunt and sighed, reaching up in vain to rub his throbbing shoulder for a moment before he began untying his trousers. At least he could do that without adding to the pain. He reached in to feel the water in the tub, which he’d asked to have filled once per day while he occupied the room. Cold, of course. He’d returned to the Passiflora quite late that night. He’d intended to be back before the sun set, but the pack of rotfiends had spooked Roach and it had taken him ages to get close enough to her to use Axi. Even with the delay she’d caused, Geralt had paid the stable that housed her for an extra portion of grain. With everything they’d been through together, she deserved to be spoiled more than she deserved his ire. 

Geralt pushed his pants down his legs, less worried about the thicker cloth peeling away from the skin of his thighs, and ultimately grateful that it hadn’t soaked through to his braies. He pushed those down and kicked them both away toward his pile of clothing before stepping into the brass tub. After falling, diving and being pushed into water of all kinds of frigid, frozen or otherwise cold, he hardly noticed the temperature of his bath at first, but he wasn’t going to let it stay that way. He’d been looking forward to this soak all day. 

He leaned back and let his hands rest against the outside of the tub on either side. His shoulder felt like it was trying to pull itself out of the socket, but he grit his teeth and endured it. With a minor force of will and a movement of the fingers on his right hand, he invoked Igni, holding the spell at bay from unleashing its energy all at once. It felt like trying to hold back a sneeze, pressure building quickly in his head--specifically behind his eyes, and leading his head to throb painfully within seconds of beginning the spell. 

The water heated quickly enough with the help of the spell and once he saw wisps of steam lifting up from the surface, he plunged his hands under, letting the sign release the rest of its energy into the water itself. Steam rose up in a billowing cloud that bathed his face, and he lifted his hands to scrub away some of the grime. His hair felt crusty, so he pulled it down out of its tail, running his fingers over the shaved sides and picking out bits of guts that fell down into the water. He dropped them into the basin on the floor beside the tub until even that became too tedious and he had to stop. 

Slowly, the water began to soothe the aches and pains of his muscles. A good night’s rest would let his body recover. If he was called on to act, he could do so immediately and with efficiency, but he would feel it later. A witcher, though enhanced, was still bound to the same laws of man to some degree or another--he couldn’t recall Vesemir’s exact words, but he didn’t care to think too hard on it. Bathing was the one time in his day when he didn’t have to think too hard, and he wasn’t about to spend it contemplating his mentor. 

A soft knock at the door erased any progress he’d made at relaxing, and he felt the muscles in his neck, shoulders and back tense immediately. “Fuck,” he groaned, sitting up a little more and reaching angrily for a rag beside him. If someone wanted to talk to him, they could damn well do it while he was naked if it was important. He snapped, “What?” 

He heard the door open and close, then the soft  _ tick _ of heels on the hardwood floor. “Forgive me not asking if you were decent,” came a gentle voice. 

Geralt took a slow breath and let it out quickly, steeling himself to whatever nonsense he was about to endure. “Considering the establishment and our history, I don’t imagine such formalities are necessary,” he said, looking up at the woman from beneath his brows. He didn’t care to pretend he was happy to see her. 

Marquise Serenity was an older woman, someone well out of a prostitute’s prime, yet still beautiful in her own right. Steel-grey hair worn back in a sensible tail, a well-tailored dress that framed her bosom modestly enough, yet made no efforts to hide what had earned her the title of Marquis, she was a sight to behold. She had smile lines and crow's feet in equal measure, but left precious little to be desired; if one were to meet those blue-grey eyes, one might feel a shiver down the spine. 

Geralt felt nothing of the sort. 

“And yet,” she pondered, coming to stand at the end of the tub and run her fingers over the brass edge, “one might say that some formalities should still be observed.” She studied Geralt for a long moment, eyes lingering on his chest and arms, though also occasionally straying lower. Her gaze did not make him uncomfortable, nor did it inspire arousal in him like it may have not so long ago. 

“If you don’t continue that thought, I’ll start to wonder who should be charging whom,” Geralt said, lifting the rag out of the water to continue scrubbing at his neck and chest. He wrapped his right arm over his chest to get at his left shoulder blade and tried to do the same with the other, only to feel the muscles pull tight and force his arm back into a neutral position. His jaw clenched in irritation more than anything now. 

“I assume this is about the girl?” he asked, looking again to Serenity as she started to make her way around the tub, running her fingers along the surface of the water. She touched the hand that held the rag and Geralt was tempted to pull away. But the conversation might be over sooner if he just let her do what she was going to do and get on with both of their lives. So he relinquished the rag, resting his arms along the edges of the tub. 

“A wise observation,” Serenity said, dipping the rag into the water and ringing it out a little before she moved his hair aside and started to wash the muck from his skin. “Not that I should be surprised. You are, after all, a witcher. But can you guess what she had to say?” 

“If I wanted guessing games and riddles, I would have gone back to the edge of the world,” he retorted. “Speak plainly or not at all... _ please _ .” 

“Ah, a please at last,” Serenity said, running the rag over the ball of his injured shoulder. The muscles twitched and Geralt pulled away slightly, the barest hint of a wince in his expression. She avoided the area, continuing down his right bicep and to his forearm. “Here I thought you’d forgotten your manners entirely.” 

Geralt’s eyes narrowed as he very quickly decided this was, indeed, going to be a great deal of nonsense. “I thought I was perfectly pleasant,” he said, leaning forward when he felt pressure from her hands. “She asked questions, I answered them. That’s how I’ve always understood conversations to work.” 

“Mmm, but I’m left wondering if what you think you say differs from what leaves your mouth,” Serenity said, her hands resting on his shoulders lightly to have him lean back again. “Multiple women you’ve shared a bed with this last month have told me you’ve behaved boorishly. I would have thought perhaps they don’t understand the way of witchers...but you’ve been with these women in the past, and they’ve sung praises about your kindness and generosity in both lovemaking and conversation. What’s changed, Geralt?”

It took everything in him not to snap back at her with the first thing that came to his mind, but in the back of his mind, he had everyone in his life who’d ever had the opportunity to see him interact with a woman screaming at him to keep his damn fool mouth shut. So that’s what he did. 

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” Serenity sighed, “but you’ve been here for near half a year. When you first arrived, I could tell that you were upset. I asked no questions then, and still I will ask none. Yaniva was out of line to bring it up with you, but she spoke sense. When we rent rooms, we do so multiple times per night. Your coin would go farther at an inn rather than a brothel, my friend.” 

“I’m not your friend,” Geralt said quietly, but firmly.  _ Stop _ . “I have no use for friends.”  _ Just stop it. Shut your damn fool mouth. _ “I need no one.” 

Serenity’s hands stilled and she walked around to sit on the chair beside the tub, draping the rag over the edge of the tub neatly. “I think you believe that. I think you need that to be true. Maybe because you feel you can’t rely on those around you, or simply because you’re stubborn for the sake of being stubborn,” she said. “I don’t understand what’s happened, I don’t particularly care to know. But with how you’ve been behaving, I worry you are trying to burn bridges that ought be left standing. I’ll forgive the debt you’ve incurred by staying here for the sake of the relationship we have cultivated. But I expect this room to be vacant by the morning.”

She reached out to touch his forearm, but Geralt pulled his arm away from the edge and into the water, looking away from Serenity. “Goodnight, Geralt,” she sighed. “Good luck on the Path.” 

Once she’d left, Geralt let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and leaned back in the tub again. He stared up at the ceiling, blinking slowly until his eyes closed altogether. But despite his exhaustion, the witcher could not rest yet. He finished his bath as well as he could on his own and slipped naked between the bed sheets, dreading having to launder his clothing in the morning before he left. 

He laid there alone and in relative silence. In a brothel, there was no way to escape the indiscreet moaning and murmured conversations from the rooms around him, but it was a far cry better than the inns and taverns where he might have found lodging otherwise. Drunkards screaming, madmen ranting, he could block out most of that and sleep well enough. But the  _ smell _ . It was the reason he had come here, in all honesty. He could handle the overlapping scents of different perfumes and the heady, musky scent of sex. But the stench of unwashed bodies and sewage, chamber pots in desperate need of emptying and the rank, diseased breath of every person who passed through the place--it was more than he could stand even to think about. This was better...this  _ had been  _ better. Now he had to leave, as he’d overstayed his welcome.

Geralt stared up at the ceiling for a long time, trying and failing to push his thoughts to the side so he could sleep. He couldn’t expect Roach to be his legs  _ and _ his brain, one of them would have to steer tomorrow. Yet despite his best efforts, he did not finally fall asleep until his room was full of predawn grey light and he heard the twitter of birds outside the window. He only needed a few hours...


End file.
